


Just Another Rough Night

by BucksomeBarnes (Freckled_Halos)



Series: the Assembled Avengers Initiative [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 05:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15017537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freckled_Halos/pseuds/BucksomeBarnes
Summary: Steve slowly eased the door open, and poked his head in. “Buck?”Bucky was sitting, legs splayed out, on the floor of their giant shower, just out of the stream from the rain style shower head. He was leaning against the cool tile wall, the metal of his arm scraping against it. His dark hair was plastered against his head and neck, his other arm lying limp at his side. Steve slipped into the room, gently pushing the door shut behind him. Bucky glanced up out of the corner of his red eyes and shakily wiped his nose with his right hand.





	Just Another Rough Night

Steve was vaguely aware of the shifting of the bed and muffled noises, but he didn’t fully wake up for another twenty minutes. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the blackness of the room. The alarm clock on his bedside table read a little after three a.m.

The shower was running. When Steve rolled over, he discovered Bucky wasn’t in bed, the sheets cold. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes, running a hand through his hair. Another five minutes passed before Steve finally got up and walked lightly towards the bathroom door, yellow light emanating from behind it. Putting his head close, he could hear the running of the water, but there was another sound underneath it. And it made Steve’s heart break.

He slowly eased the door open, and poked his head in. “Buck?”

Bucky was sitting, legs splayed out, on the floor of their giant shower, just out of the stream from the rain style shower head. He was leaning against the cool tile wall, the metal of his arm scraping against it. His dark hair was plastered against his head and neck, his other arm lying limp at his side. Steve slipped into the room, gently pushing the door shut behind him. Bucky glanced up out of the corner of his red eyes and shakily wiped his nose with his right hand.

It took Steve a moment to realize that Bucky was still in his boxer briefs and tank top. Quickly walking to the shower door, Steve reached in and turned the freezing water off. He stepped into the shower, the bottoms of his sweatpants getting wet, and coaxed a heavy Bucky to stand. His skin was ice cold and covered in goosebumps.

They stood in the middle of the lush bathroom, Bucky dripping onto the tile with an empty expression. Looking at him painfully, Steve reached out to strip his soaked clothes off. He pulled the tank top off over Bucky’s head, who ducked obligingly. Dropping to a squat, Steve put his hands on Bucky’s hips, kissing his belly and thighs as he pulled the underwear down, Bucky stepping out of them. Steve picked them up, hanging both items of clothing over the door of the shower to dry.

He walked around to face Bucky before touching him, putting warm hands on either side of his face. Bucky’s empty expression contorted into pain as the tears began to fall anew. Steve brushed them away with this thumbs before enveloping Bucky in a tight hug, rubbing circles into the back of his head.

Muffled by Steve’s shoulder and impossibly quiet, Bucky whispered hoarsely, “I’m sorry.”

Steve pulled away just enough to look him in the eye. “Sorry? For what?”

“Waking you up,” he replied thickly.

Steve’s eyebrows knotted up. “You know you can wake me up for anything, Buck. Was it another nightmare?”

Bucky nodded, closing his eyes, fighting back the memory of it. Steve could feel Bucky’s heart start to race and breath quicken.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, just look at me.”

Taking an unsteady breath in, Bucky slowly opened his eyes, unfocused. Steve replaced his hands on Bucky’s cheeks and tried to catch his gaze.

“Bucky. Sugar. Hey, it’s just you and me. You’re safe, it’s okay.”

He completely collapsed into Steve’s chest, taking big, raspy breaths, gripping at Steve’s sides, hands buried in his t-shirt. Steve, trying to contain his own emotions, effortlessly scooped Bucky up, clasping his arms together under Bucky’s bare bottom.

Steve remembered how it felt to be carried by Bucky back in the day. Innocently, while feigning sleep, from the sofa to the bed. Joyfully, spinning, in celebration. Filthily, slammed against a wall while getting well and truly fucked. Steve always felt the most vulnerable in Bucky’s arms, but it was also where he felt safest and in this moment, Steve just wanted to do anything he could to make Bucky feel safe.

Flicking the bathroom light off with an elbow, he stepped carefully towards their bed. Steve sat down on the edge of his side, Bucky’s knees pressing into the mattress on either side of Steve’s hips. He folded over, shoving his face into the crook of Steve’s neck as Steve rubbed up and down his trembling back, warming his skin. Bucky pawed at Steve’s chest and belly, slipping his hands under his shirt, trying to ground himself in reality.

Steve kissed Bucky’s shoulder and temple, murmuring soft words of comfort as Bucky slowly calmed down and warmed up. An indiscernible amount of time passed as they sat together. Eventually, Bucky’s breathing evened out and his heartrate slowed as he slipped back into sleep. Steve sat for a little while longer like that, Bucky tucked up into him, finally sleeping soundly. He continued running his hands along Bucky’s spine, scratching lightly.

He hummed any Artie Shaw he could think of, trying to bring himself back to happier memories. Memories of long summer afternoons with Bucky at Coney Island. His seventeenth birthday when Bucky saved up the money to get him a thick sketchbook and new pencils, before giving him something _else_ for the first time later that night. The Christmas of 1940—the last one before America entered the war…

Bucky shifted, bringing Steve back to the present. He looked around, finding a stray hair tie in the top drawer of his nightstand. Since Bucky’s hair got long enough to pull up, Steve had been finding elastics everywhere. In Bucky’s things. In his things. In the quinjet. Not wanting to wake him up, Steve awkwardly pulled Bucky’s wet hair to the back of his skull and wrapped the tie around as best he knew how, not pulling the hair through the final time to create a bun, as Bucky often did.

With a slight grunt, Steve stood, cradling Bucky in his arms again. He walked around the bed and gently laid him down, pulling the sheet up to his waist. He ran the back of his fingers along Bucky’s peaceful face, a sadness in his heart. Leaning down, Steve kissed him on the forehead before returning to his side of the bed. He slipped under the covers and looked at Bucky, observing the steady rise and fall of his chest. Steve chose to focus on that as he tried to fall asleep again himself. He reached out, taking Bucky’s flesh hand in his and closed his eyes.

 -

The next morning, as the early sun drifted through the blinds, illuminating small dust particles in the warm air, Steve woke to find Bucky missing from bed again. He rubbed his eyes and eased up. One of the Artie Shaw songs he had been humming last night was playing on the stereo in their room, crackling and quiet. The smell of cinnamon drifted from down the hall.

Steve stepped out of the bedroom and into the kitchen to see Bucky standing at the oven, old sweatpants hanging loosely at his hips, eyeing a steaming dish on the stovetop. He turned as Steve walked in, looking at him with tired eyes.

“I made cinnamon rolls,” he started quietly. “You know I'm no chef, but we had one of those cans in the fridge and I know how much you like them…”

“Bucky—”

“Stop, Steve.” He looked at his hands. “You deserve so much better than me. You always have. I know to everyone else it always seemed like I was the one taking care of you, but you and I both know what a load of horseshit that is.”

Steve looked at him achingly, stepping over to put his hands on Bucky’s sides.

“Steve…” Bucky placed his hands on either side of Steve’s face, eyes roaming to his nose, chin, forehead and back again. “My beautiful Steve…”

Steve pulled a small smile in response, breath catching in his throat.

“What would I do without you, dollface?”

For once, Steve didn’t argue. He didn't deny or downplay as he normally would. As much as we wanted to, he knew it would just make Bucky more upset. Instead, he put his hands on top of Bucky’s and tried to smile more sincerely. They leaned together and shared a soft peck before wrapping their arms around each other.

“I love you,” Steve whispered. “ _All_ of you. I loved you when we were teenagers and I love you now. What happened in between doesn’t change that.”

Bucky took a deep breath in, then out. “You’re one stubborn sonofabitch aren’t you, Rogers?”

Steve smiled wide. “You know I am.”

Bucky slid his hands from Steve’s back to his sides then up his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt. “I love you too.” Voice cracking, he pulled his head away, looking Steve in his bright blue eyes. “More than I know how to handle.”

Steve loosened his grip around Bucky’s shoulders, slipping his own hands to Bucky’s bare chest, nestling into the hairs there. “It’s okay,” he replied, his fingers making small circles on Bucky’s skin. “We’ll figure it out.”

Bucky cocked his head and looked at Steve with an emotion in his eyes neither of them could explain. He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again and simply nodded.

Steve patted at Bucky’s chest. “But first, let’s have some of these cinnamon rolls, huh?”

Bucky smiled softly and let go of Steve’s shirt, smoothing it down before kissing his cheek. “What do you say we just bring this entire pan back to bed?”

Steve laughed lightly. “Yeah, alright. Just don’t get the sheets sticky.”

Bucky shot a look back, eyebrows raised.

“Get your head outta the gutter, Barnes,” Steve groaned. 

They went into the bedroom and climbed onto the bed. Steve moved the pillows and scooted back, leaning against the headboard. He spread his legs and Bucky settled in, his back flush to Steve’s torso. Bucky held the hot pan in his metal hand and tore into it with his right, grabbing a chunk of glazed and steaming roll. Steve took a piece with his left hand and on the way to his mouth, it dripped warm glaze onto Bucky’s shoulder at the meeting of metal and flesh.

“Hey,” Bucky said, trying to turn to glare at Steve.

“Sorry,” he murmured, dipping his head to gently lick it off and kiss along the scarred seam of skin.

Bucky closed his eyes, trying to focus on the feeling of Steve’s mouth, trying to replace at least one horrible Winter Soldier memory with this one. Steve’s mouth, gently brushing against the part of himself that Bucky hated most. The part of him that was a constant reminder of all the terrible, horrible things that he had done. All the terrible, horrible things that were done _to_ him.

“You okay?” Steve asked.

“Yeah.” Bucky took a deep breath and shifted so he could look at Steve’s face more clearly. “I am right now.”


End file.
